A single light bulb hung from the ceiling with no benefit of a lampshade. And up against one wall were a couple of chairs that had seen better days. The floor was plain wood, and lodged against the open window was an old, air conditioner. Marcus wondered if it ever worked.
Standing beside the air conditioner, her arms folded was a nun. She tipped her head in greeting and asked them, in English to sit down. Then she looked beyond Marcus and Susan to Ali Seema and nodded. The interpreter bowed his head, said a few salaams and backed out of the office.
Marcus and Susan did as they had been asked and sat down. Meanwhile the nun took her place in the chair behind the desk. They heard the car engine start up and listened as the Tata drove away, the sound of its engine fading into the night.
Then they heard something else; the sound of footsteps on the gravel outside, then the creaking of the main door as it swung open. The footsteps sounded again in the corridor outside the office. Suddenly the door opened and an Arab walked in. Marcus and Susan both gasped in surprise; it was the driver of the Tata.
‘Good evening,’ he said to them in passable English. ‘I’m sorry for the…’ he stumbled on the word for a moment. ‘… how do you say, tricks? But I have to be careful.’ He bowed his head. ‘Please allow me to introduce myself; I am Abdul Khaliq.’
Cavendish woke up, his head throbbing like mad. He opened his eyes and looked around him. He could see white walls and smell disinfectant and soap. The ache in his head reminded him that he had been drinking Jim Beam, but there was something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
He lifted his head off the pillow and looked around the room. It was like a private room in a hospital, but without the personal touches he would have associated with such a place. There was a bell cord beside his bed which he pulled. A nurse appeared soon after. She was wearing a white coat over army fatigues. She lifted Cavendish’s arm and checked his pulse, then put his arm down and put her fingers to her lips.
‘Back in a while,’ she told him, and left.
The nurse came back with a doctor. He also was wearing camouflage fatigues beneath a white coat. He had the traditional stethoscope hanging round his neck.
‘Good morning sir,’ he said cheerfully. ‘How are you feeling?’
Cavendish couldn’t tell him the truth, which was that he didn’t want to give the doctor a reason to keep him there.
‘I’m fine,’ he lied. ‘Too much to drink I guess.’
The doctor smiled and pulled a pen torch from his top pocket. He shone it in Cavendish’s eyes.
‘You fell over and banged your head, they tell me.’ He peered closely at Cavendish’s eyes. ‘But these tell me something different,’ he muttered.
‘What, my eyes?’
The doctor laughed. ‘No, these,’ he said and touched Cavendish on the side of the neck. The doctor’s touch made him yelp, pulling his head away.
‘It looks like something hit you on the side of the neck.’ The doctor was moving his head around as he spoke, carefully examining the bruising. ‘I think the collar of your flak jacket saved you. Wonderful things, flak jackets.’
He straightened and put his torch away. Then he finished of examining Cavendish and told him he could go whenever he felt able.
Cavendish was mightily pleased; eager to get out of the Base hospital and speak to Lieutenant McCain. He was also curious to find out who the man was he saw coming out of the headquarters building. The bang on the side of the head hadn’t exactly cleared it, but neither had it diminished his sense of urgency nor his sense of intrigue. Something was nagging away at him and he needed to find out what it was.
And quickly.
Abdul Khaliq sat facing them across the desk. The nun had left the room after asking them all if they wanted something to eat or drink. They settled for water which the nun brought in. She had put the jug and three glasses on the desk before leaving.
‘Why the subterfuge then?’ Marcus asked Abdul. ‘Why couldn’t you have come up to the hotel room, avoid all this drama?’
Abdul studied Marcus with the air of someone who feels sympathy for one who understands so little. ‘We are at risk even now,’ he explained. ‘If I had approached you openly in Kabul, I would never have left the hotel. And nor would you.’
Susan twitched at that last statement. She tried to keep thinking of David and not let her nerves get the better of her.
‘What can you tell me about my brother?’ she asked Abdul. ‘Is he ok?’
Abdul smiled at her, his teeth flashing brilliantly white beneath his beard. ‘I can promise you he is alive and he is well.’
‘Why didn’t you bring him here?’ Marcus asked him.
Abdul glanced across at Marcus knowing that he still did not understand. ‘He is too important to be brought here and handed over to you two.’ He held both his arms forward across the desk, his hands open. ‘Surely you can understand that?’
Marcus could see the logic; anybody seriously opposed to Abdul Khaliq would have no problems wiping them all out. The sense of danger, of risk, was beginning to stir something in Marcus; he was beginning to feel that strange sense of displeasure that often surged through him whenever anyone spoiled his day. He wanted David Ellis free, back home with Susan, unhindered by the war lords and the drug barons, and he was beginning to get a little tired of all this posturing he was witnessing from Abdul.
‘So when are you going to take us to see him? I presume you are, Abdul,’ he said. ‘Or is this just a bloody game to you?’
Susan turned sharply. ‘Marcus!’
Marcus stared at her with hard eyes. There was steel in them which Susan recognised and she began to wonder if Marcus might blow it for them all because of his latent temper.
‘I’m sure Abdul will take us to David in good time,’ she insisted, trying to bring a calming influence on Marcus. She looked across at Abdul. ‘Well, will you take us to see my brother?’ she asked.
Abdul sat forward, his manner changing a little; it was more business like. ‘The reason you are here is to get your brother released, is that right?’ Susan nodded. ‘And you are here because you have been sent by your government, is that correct also?’
Susan hadn’t been given any real mandate from Cavendish other than to keep him informed of developments over the phone.
‘Yes, but I’m not sure I have any real authority,’ she replied weakly.
‘Then let me explain something to you.’ He paused and cleared his throat. ‘The war here in Afghanistan cannot be won by the Americans or the British. The Americans do not like our president; they see him as weak and ineffective. And when our so called democratic elections come in the summer, they expect him to be re-elected; in which case they plan to install someone in the government who will have the real power. He will be pro-American. He will be the top man.’
‘What’s your point, Abdul?’ Marcus asked him.
Abdul frowned. ‘He will be a CIA man. He will run the country, and he will want complete control of the poppy fields.’
‘So men like you will be an obstacle to the Americans, is that it?’
Abdul nodded. ‘To the CIA. And even if I withdrew, they would find me and kill me. In fact, they are trying now.’
‘And that is why you want our help?’ Susan asked incredulously.
‘Yes!’ He slapped his hand on the table making Susan jump. ‘So you can tell your government that I will exchange your brother for my freedom. I want political asylum.’
